


The Ruins of Ashelnand

by Hyela



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Fantasy elements, Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Queer Themes, Rebellion, Revolution, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1218205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyela/pseuds/Hyela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the city of Ashelnand, fairness is a foreign concept. Everyone must simply follow the rules. There is no place for strangers, no place for difference, and everyone suffers in silence. Enjolras is prone to revolt and a voice for the people. Unfortunately, his riot fail and he finds himself captured and brought to strange place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hill have Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> -English is not my first language and I don't have a beta
> 
> -This story will contain violence and sexual content. The sexual content doesn't include rape, but there are a few icky scenes.
> 
> The story is character-centric more than plot-driven.
> 
> -Each chapter title is also the title of a horror movie, but the genre of the story may vary.
> 
> -The themes: death, alienation, loneliness, harshness of life, finding a new purpose, etc.
> 
> -Might have a bittersweet ending

 

 _When the fires, when the fires have surrounded you_  
 _With the Hounds of Hell coming after you_  
 _I’ve got blood, I’ve got blood on my name_  
~Blood on my name -The Wright Brothers

 

Ashelnand was not a city known for its mercy. The king was a purely egotistical man who favoured the rich and the privileged. He was the one who came up with the idea to declare himself king, even though his power only extended to the city. He had as many vices as he had prejudices against anything that did not fall into his ideal of what a person ought to be. For that reason, his monarchy was corrupted and his people lived as modestly as he could make them live. They benefited from social services, but those were few and tricky. For instance, if one was part of a “minority group”, they had to wear a special badge to notify everyone around them. Privacy was a foreign concept in Ashelnand, unless you could pay for it. Therefore, people, whether they be queer, disabled, foreign or anything else straying from the norm, could be legally discriminated against. In the worst cases, they could be arrested if someone just thought they were doing something suspicious. Asherlnand had the death penalty in force, and it was not rare to see public hangings at the agora.

 

All of the books and papers that were published into the city followed a process of censorship, so that no one could criticize the decisions made by the king too openly. Everyone seemed to be living with their lips sealed and their voice shut down. However, no one left since the city still had its advantages, while all the towns and villages around were plagued by poverty, and sometimes famine. These smaller towns were filled with bizarre people that no Ashelnander trusted. They thought that, by living in the city, they were protected from the foreigners. No one really knew what they ought to feel anymore. After all, the king did not force anyone to stay.

 

During the Spring, a small organization of citizens from various backgrounds planned what they figured would be the revolution that would threw over the king. A magnificent coup d’état that would give the strength to the people to awaken from their stupor and fight back. It started out strong, with the leader of the group, a man of spirit, righteous anger and passion, setting a fire in people’s minds. He convinced them that they had to try, to stand their ground and to get the freedom they deserve. His name was Aurel Enjolras. He was barely an adult, and already his words could make hearts tremble. His determination was contagious and his fiery blue eyes could put one’s laziness, or cowardice to shame. The ones who knew him were inspired by his capacity to gather a crowd, to motivate it, to make them _believe_. Yet, such a man was not enough against the powers that be. The government mellowed its people’s minds with little compromises, false promises and some truer ones. They conceded a little piece of comfort, which was far from enough, and made it seem as though the people should consider themselves lucky. The results were as such: most of the public backed down and the revolutionaries were left without any resources. The support of the citizens torn away from them, they were immediately sentenced to jail, and some of them to the death penalty. The king wanted to make an example out of them.

 

The day the revolt in Ashelnand began was the day it failed. The men who partook in it fled outside the city, pursued by the Great Guards and even a few loyalists, armed with knives and heavy rocks. They stabbed the young activists they caught and bashed their heads against the cobblestone, painting the streets with the blood of the rebellious, and feeling their hearts swell with pride as they were congratulated. Those who surrendered were forced to kill their own friends to prove their worth, or to face death themselves. The trust among the group was broken when the cowards decided to turn their back on the cause, and on their formerly close friends. All hope had faded away by the end of the afternoon, but Enjolras was not there to see all this.

 

Forced into a car by his friends, covered in much more modest clothes than he was used to, he was made to leave the city before the tension between the protesters and the guards exploded. The only thing he remembered was a burst of pain against the side of his head, courtesy of Courfeyrac, and his vision blurring before turning black. It seemed like the people he thought he would be leading to freedom did not believe in him, or at least not enough to let him have his place at the front of the fight. Mostly, they thought him too young, or too valuable to lose, even for the good of the cause. That is why he was lying in the trunk of a car instead of standing on top of a barricade, a gun in hand. He woke up bitter, hurt and worried. The headache did not help.

 

The vehicle had stopped and Enjolras couldn’t hear anyone. He was tempted to kick the inside of the boot, but he refrained, thinking that it wouldn’t be wise to attract attention to himself, depending where the car was. About fifteen minutes passed before he heard the clicking sound of a key opening the trunk. There was light, and the silhouette of someone that Enjolras thought was his friend Combeferre. He put his hands above his eyes and screwed up his eyes. The man that was standing there was not Combeferre, nor Coufeyrac. It was no one that he knew, though his visage was familiar. He had a round face and a muscular body, and he was wearing a brown trench coat. He grinned at Enjolras, seized him by the pans of his coat, and promptly threw him on the ground. There were a few laughs around them. Quickly, Enjolras put himself back on his feet, but the stranger kicked him in the back of the knee and he fell again. Perplexed and angry, he took the time to look at the people who were cheekily staring at him.

 

There were four men in total. Two of them were middle-aged, the one who had thrown Enjolras looked about twenty-five to thirty, and the fourth one, who was smirking at Enjolras and holding a gun, looked as young as he was. He was tall and handsome, dressed in expensive clothes, and crowned with one of those top hats Courfeyrac liked so much. On his leather coat, a bright red badge was shining, sign that he was a prostitute. Given his well-groomed appearance, he was most certainly a privileged one, one who worked for the wealthiest people. Enjolras hesitated to judge the man as a sell-out, but he still frowned. Were those the men that his friends had trusted to bring him to safety? Enjolras doubted it. It looked more like they had been tricked. Perhaps someone had stolen the car while Enjolras was unconscious, getting rid of the original driver. He hoped that his friends were alright.

 

“Well, what have we here?” said the man in the top-hat. He had a profound, suave, confident voice. He was the leader of the quartet, there was no doubt about it. Enjolras decided to remain silent for as long as possible. These strangers were not the police, but even with criminals or sleazy individuals these days, anything you said could be held against you.

 

“He’s a little... not like I thought he would be,” one of the older men mumbled. His gaze on Enjolras’ face and torso was lewd. “Are you sure you got the right one, Claquesous?”

 

The man who manhandled Enjolras out of the car appeared before him and cocked his head. He was really looking familiar, and he was glaring at Enjolras with the air of someone who had been offended and was waiting for an apology. “Looks can be deceiving,” he finally said.

 

Indeed, they could. Enjolras had been confused for a woman all his life. He was tall, willowy, and smooth-skinned. He disdained cutting his hair, and so at the age of eighteen, they were cascading down his back in blonde waves. His lips were red and full. The men in the city pleased themselves by calling him “princess” or “lady”, in a foul attempt to ridicule and embarrass him. Since there was nothing wrong with femininity, Enjolras was only frustrated by the persisting belief that he had to be meek and weak, simply because he did not look manly enough to be the representative of the revolution, in many’s eyes. However, the fact that people underestimated him had often helped him in the past.

 

“Are you Aurel Enjolras? The Golden Boy?” Top-Hat asked. Enjolras stared at him impassively and remained silent. Top-Hat looked more like he was showing his teeth, like a dog, than like he was smiling. He spat on the ground, right in front of Enjolras. “You know, even if you’re not Golden Boy, the future won’t be sweet to you. It just will be a little less rough on you if you cooperate.”

 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. He was unafraid and had no intention to negotiate with criminals. Obviously, they wanted to get him back to the city and ransomed him. If he said he wasn’t Enjolras, they would kill him on the spot. No option was particularly better: Enjolras did not want to die a prisoner in any case. He figured he would try to save some time by resisting his interrogation, even if he was to be tortured. Silently, he looked the area. The walls of the city could not be seen from where he was. There was only the empty road, vast plains, a few trees and another car. Enjolras was not tied, but if he tried to flee, they might shoot him. Given the scenery, if any of the four bandits was a remotely good shot, he stood no chance. Enjolras sighed and went back to stare at Top-Hat, who was slowly shaking his head.

 

“Do you want me to do a bit of roughhousing, Montparnasse?” one of the man asked Top-Hat. So that was his name. Enjolras had heard about a Montparnasse before. What he heard was nothing flattering. Apparently, the guy had a flair for sordid affairs, and he was responsible for many murders in the streets of Ashelnand. He always took care of killing only the people who wouldn’t be missed, whose death wouldn’t arouse indignation. Since he was well-liked among the rich and famous, he had not been arrested yet, despite his reputation. Not that some had not tried before.

 

“Nah. Torture a guy, and he’ll tell you he’s Jesus Christ to make you stop,” Montparnasse said. “Claquesou’s pretty sure that it’s him, anyway. Right, Claquesous?”

 

“Yeah, it’s him.”

 

“Then that’s good enough for me. We just need to go negociate our price. Obviously, we can’t take him with us yet, or they won’t give us the maximum reward. I propose that two of us stay here while the two others will go back to Ashelnand to talk to the king.” The middle-aged men nodded. The one who looked the more depraved licked his lips and asked if he could stay. Montparnasse shrugged. “You and Claquesous, then. Don’t damage him, because they’ll probably want him alive and well. Before hanging him, that is. They do like to watch the breath die from the squirmy, lively ones. What do you say about that, Blondie?”

 

Montparnasse nudged Enjolras with his foot. Enjolras promptly grabbed his leg and sank his teeth into it. The taste of the fabric of the pants was disgusting, and the garment protected Montparnasse from much harm, but it was worth it just to hear the man squeak. At least, that is what Enjolras thought before getting kicked in the face. He fell on his back and, above him, he heard Claquesous cawing. He figured that must have been the man’s attempt at laughing. Slowly, he touched his face to check for bruises. His nose was bleeding, but not broken. Montparnasse appeared above him and the canon of his gun was jammed under his chin. Enjolras scoffed, unimpressed. If Montparnasse was so sure that he was the leader of the revolt, if he wanted his ramson, he wasn’t going to shoot him. Not in the head, anyway.

 

“You little shit,” Montparnasse muttered, “if you are going to act like a dog, we are going to treat you like a dog. Get up.”

 

They put Enjolras up against a tree and tied in with a thick rope that they took from one of the cars. He did not resist, thinking that it would be a waste of time, but he kept his jaw tight the whole time and did his best to ignore the taunts and the questions. Montparnasse left with one of his accomplice in the second car, leaving him with a frowning Claquesous and a laughing Lewd-man. It was going to be a long day.

 

*******

 

After a couple of hours in his company, Enjolras was sure that he had seen Claquesous before. The man kept eying him with something that resembled a grimace of intense dislike. He wasn’t lecherous, like his friend who kept making obscene comments about Enjolras’ waist and lips, or naturally disdainful, like Montparnasse. He was just plain hateful. Surely he was not a loyalist, because then he would have brought Enjolras to the king without the promise of a reward. His hate had to steam from something more personal, but Enjolras had never been good at keeping track of who was in good terms with him, unless it mattered to the cause. He could not even remember what Claquesous’s real name was.

 

The man was not very tall, had a round belly and a round face, and few hair on his head. He looked like a common man, a dime a dozen. He kept fumbling with his pocket knife while looking at Enjolras, which was far from reassuring. What if he decided to stab Enjolras, betraying his leader in order to fulfill whatever rancour he had against the blonde? But he didn’t. He just sighed, every once in a while, and looked at the sun setting. He even scolded his friend when the latter got a little too close to Enjolras for comfort.

 

“Leave the damn kid alone, Gueulemer!” he barked. “You can find yourself a whore in the city when we’re done.”

 

“Whore with a face like his are expensive,” Gueulemer groaned with disappointment. He passed the large hand that wasn’t holding a handgun on Enjolras hair. The young man stayed still, staring right ahead, and did not make a move. He did not want to show any fear to these mongrels. He had never been touched that way before, and so the thought of being abused sexually by such disgusting men was upsetting, but it was even more preoccupying to Enjolras to preserve his dignity.

 

“Well then, fap yourself to death for all I care, but you can’t touch him. Montparnasse said no. Besides, he could use the distraction to escape.”

 

“Then, I’d shoot him!”

 

“Which is exactly what we want to avoid, dumbass.”

 

Gueulemer grunted, but he stopped petting Enjolras. Instead, he sat in front of him, deposed his gun on the ground next to him, and started massaging his crotch through his jeans. Enjolras tried to ignore him, but he couldn’t help the nonplussed look on his face. Claquesous caught sight of it and cackled. However, he stopped abruptly when the sound of a car resounded. It did not sound like Montparnasse’s car. It was noisier, like the muffler was broken and kept hiccuping. It did not stop Gueulemer from getting his member out of his jeans. It was already half-erected. His face was contorted into a weird expression of pain and pleasure. He kept making these little groans as he masturbated. Enjolras regained a passive look, but he was definitely grossed out, and he could feel the blood rushing to his ears. He turned his head to the right, hoping that whoever was in the strange car would help him.

 

“Hey. Hey, Gueulemer. Stop, for a minute. Someone’s coming,” Claquesous urged.

 

“That’s just Parnasse...”

 

“No, it’s not! Can’t you see from here? It’s a pickup truck. Grab your gun, man!”

 

Sighing, Gueulemer put his prick back into his jeans and got up. He joined his friend on the side of the road, gun hidden under his shirt. Enjolras stretched his neck to see better. There was effectively a green pickup truck coming their way. The machine stopped at about twenty metres from them. For a moment, it actually seemed to be empty, because no one came out. It just stood there, silent. Claquesous waved at the truck. In response, someone honked at him. The truck started again and approached them. This time, it stopped only a few metres before Claquesous and Gueulemer. A door opened and an unnaturally tall, muscular man got out. He had brown skin and his long hair was in dreads. He was also sporting a thick beard and, despite the cold, didn’t wear a coat, only a t-shirt. He looked like a foreigner. He smiled at Claquesous and Gueulemer and waved at them.

 

“Hey, good evening to you, city-dwellers! What are you doing on the desert road of Nye? It’s rare to see someone hanging out here.”

 

Claquesous forced a laugh out.

 

“We were going to Mist Hill—” he began, only to be promptly cut off.

 

“Yeah? And then you suddenly decided to get out of the car and to tie your friend to a tree?” the stranger quipped, grinning.

 

“They and I, we’re absolutely not friend! I would advice you to return into your car becau—” Enjolras yelled. He was not about to let an innocent passerby get hurt or kill. Unfortunately, Gueulemer was at his side in a second to punch him in the stomach. Enjolras keened in pain, breath cut short. Claquesous laughed again.

 

“He is right. He and us are no friend. This little brat tried to ambush us. He was hitchhiking, we thought we would do something nice and help, and he pointed a gun at us. Fortunately, he didn’t know how to use it. Young and hopeless, you know? Hey, Gueulemer, show him the gun that the hitcher pointed on us.”

 

Gueulemer snarled at Enjolras before going back to his friend’s side. He got the gun out of behind his belt. The stranger whistled. Enjolras gasped, trying to regain his breath, and shook his head furiously.

 

“They are liars, and cowards!” he cried out, but the stranger only shrugged at him.

 

“Hey, I don’t want any trouble. If that girly guy ambushed you, I believe you,” he declared. Enjolras scoffed and rolled his eyes. Apparently, this man was no better than the ones keeping him hostage.

 

“We’re waiting for our friends,” Claquesous said. “They left in search of the city guards.”

 

“Oh, really? If someone tried to rob me at gun point, I think I would just snap their neck, instead of having to deal with the police. Unless he was a wanted criminal of course. Because then, he’d be worth something...”

 

“Oh no, he’s just a useless youth!” Claquesous exclaimed, cackling. “Look at his woman face, look at his well-groomed hair? He’s a rich kid who tried to get a rush of adrenaline, nothing else.”

 

“ _I_ am the leader of Ashelnand’s revolution! I am an important figure!” Enjolras screeched. It was not out of vanity. He thought that perhaps if he lured the stranger to think he had something to gain, he could create enough discord to eventually escape. He did not know how yet, but it was better than doing nothing. The dreadlocks guy did look interested. He winked at Enjolras.

 

“A member of the failed revolution, heh? Why would you be in a hurry to announce that?”

 

“What do you mean, the failed revolution?” Enjolras said faintly. Surely, the revolts and the riots in the city were still going on.

 

“From what I’ve heard, everyone is either dead, a prisoner, or missing, man,” the stranger said, not a glint of compassion in his voice. At Enjolras’ completely dismayed face, he barked a laugh. “What, are you really that surprised? It was a matter of a few hours.”

 

“Anyway, sir,” Claquesous interjected, “He is in good hands. I promise. We’re going to get him back to the city in one piece, where he’ll be judged according to the law.”

 

Enjolras almost did not catch that. He was in shock, his heart beating fast, thinking of what might have become of his friends. He was never the one to have religious beliefs, but in that moment, he had the urge to selfishly pray that the missing men were his friends. That they managed to escape, even at the expense of someone else. He chastised himself mentally for having such thoughts. It wasn’t fair to all the people who helped making the resistance movement possible.

 

“If you say so,” the stranger said, moving to get back into his truck. He stopped in his track. “But I wouldn’t plan to stay here for too long, if I were you.”

 

Claquesous and Gueulemer exchanged a glance, frowning.

 

“What do you mean?” Gueulemer asked.

 

“What, you are going to Mist Hill and you don’t know?” the stranger said, his eyebrows rising in confusion.

 

“It’ll be our first time there,” Claquesous admitted after a second of hesitation.

 

“Ha! Young city-dwellers who never take the time to inform themselves about what’s going on in the rest of the world! Unfortunately, it’s bad luck to talk about the trolls, so...”

 

“The trolls?” Gueulemer repeated. His tone was credulous.

 

“Yes, the trolls. At night, they make you pay a price for using this particular road. That is why no one ever come to visit us in Mist Hill during the night. It’s not safe. Talking about it is not safe.”

 

“There is no such things as trolls,” Claquesous scoffed in a mocking tone. He swatted at his friend. “Don’t you see he’s making fun of you? You won’t be having us, mate. Hope you return safely home.”

 

“Well, then. If there are no trolls,” his gaze caught Enjolras’s, “I guess I’ll see you around.”

 

“Yeah, right. We’ll say hi when we’ll be in Mist Hill. Goodbye!” Claquesous said. He was becoming tense and impatient. The stranger laughed and waved before finally getting back into his truck. He started the vehicle and left, whistling.

 

Looking at the truck shrinking on the road, Enjolras blinked away tears. Not only did his chance to be saved just went away, but he was now more worried than ever. Were Courfeyrac and Combeferre alright? Or did they die at the hand of the city’s guards, without him? Leaving him behind? Anger bubbled up Enjolras’ throat. He felt the itch to scream and to struggle against his bonds, so he did. He swore as the rope bit into the skin of his wrists, snarled at his situation, and kicked the ground. Gueulemer stared at him, dumbfounded, before bursting into laugh, with made Enjolras try desperately to escape with a renewed vigour. Claquesous only sighed while he looked at him.

 

*******

 

The twilight arrived before Montparnasse and the fourth man came back. By that time, Enjolras had exhausted himself. Claquesous had tied a stained tie that he had in his pocket around his mouth so he would stop screaming. Enjolras nearly bit his fingers, which warranted him a hard slap in the face. When the black car appeared and stop next to the other one, Enjolras was slumped against the tree, his limbs aching. The famine and the fatigue were giving him a headache: Claquesous and Gueulemer had not fed him, nor did they gave him anything to drink. His mouth was horribly dry. The furor had not left his eyes.

 

Montparnasse got out from the car. He was accompanied not only by his goon, but by a muscular woman wearing the colours of the city’s guard. Her hair was tied in a tight bun. She looked a little young to be a scout, but she carried herself with the confidence required. The moment she saw Enjolras, she nodded impassively and unhooked a big talkie-walkie from her waist.

 

“It’s him,” she declared. She approached Enjolras and gave him a once over. “He is perfectly neutralized. I won’t need reinforcement. I can bring him back alone. Yes, I’m sure, sir.”

 

“And then they can give me the other half of the reward,” Montparnasse muttered.

 

He smiled at Enjolras, who ignored him superbly. He was hearing a strange faraway sound. It was much like the pickup truck of that stranger before. He was probably coming back this way. Enjolras stretched his neck and, sure enough, there were clouds of dust on the road, signifying the presence of a vehicle. The guard woman noticed it too. She immediately took out her gun from her holster... and pointed it at Montparnasse’s head. The quartet startled. Gueulemer fumbled with his belt, but she quickly aimed at his arm and fired. Claquesous sprung on her, but suddenly, a figure dropped from the tree to which Enjolras was tied and landed right in front of the blonde. The newcomer caught Claquesous in his run-up and threw him on the ground. They kicked the man in the stomach twice, before the fourth man of the quartet attacked him. Meanwhile, Montparnasse had caught the woman’s wrist and twisted her arm. She dropped the gun, but she headbutt him by throwing her head backward. Montparnasse’s hold loosen enough for her to get free, but they both jumped at the same time towards the gun. Unfortunately for them, the weapon had landed near Enjolras, who put his foot on it as firmly as he could. Montparnasse swore and hit the woman with his shoulder before turning towards her to punch her. He missed, and she pulled him to her by the pan of his jacket, making them roll on the ground.

 

Gueulemer was whining and bleeding profusely, but he got hold of his gun again and fired at the one who got down from the tree. He missed him, but not by much. The element of surprise helped Claquesous and his other friend overcoming him. When Enjolras turned his head, he saw that Montparnasse was straddling the woman, who was screeching at him, making whatever this brawl was meant to be a failure. Or not. Enjolras looked at the road and saw that the pickup truck had stopped nearby. The same stranger from before got out. He was unarmed, but he was walking towards them confidently. Gueulemer aimed at him, getting that he was probably an ally of their attackers, and fired. He got the man right in the chest. Yet, the man did not stop walking. He did not even buck. He didn’t slow down, or accelerated. Enjolras’s eyes widen in shock, and from the gasps he heard, he wasn’t the only one aghast. When the man arrived near them, Gueulemer pointed his gun at the guy struggling in Claquesous’s grasp.

 

“If you keep walking, I’ll kill him!” Gueulemer yelled. He was white, bloody and sweat was covering his forehead. The giant dreadlocks guy did not look impressed at all.

 

“That suits me fine! Then I’ll break your little birdie neck,” he sing-sang.

 

Enjolras could now see that he was bleeding from the chest, but it wasn’t much, and he seemed totally unaffected. He was grinning. Stories about the odd foreigners who lived in the forest surrounding Mist Hill came back to Enjolras’s mind. There was a reason why almost no one ever wanted to leave the city. Why the roads were often empty. Why the royal traders left for other towns armed to the teeth. That man, that colossus, was one of these reasons.

 

Perplexed, Gueulemer aimed at the giant again, but in a second, there was no more giant before him. The guy had jumped the distance between where he was to Gueulemer and, although the latter fixed his aim and fired again, it was too late. The stranger seized his head between his large hands and twisted it. An ugly, disturbing snap told Enjolras that Gueulemer’s neck had been broken. He shuddered uncontrollably.

 

Next, the giant approached the fourth man of the quartet. Him and Claquesous let go of their prisoner and backed down, terrified. That is when they heard the sound of a car getting started: Montparnasse had let go of the woman and was fleeing. He honked at his friends who got the clue. They abandoned the white car in favour of rushing towards their chief’s car. Claquesous threw a last nasty glance at Enjolras, and soon after, they were gone.

 

Enjolras blinked and kicked the gun away from him. The woman, who got back on her feet, silently picked it up. Her harden, impassive expression was long gone; she actually had tears in her eyes. Enjolras sympathized with her. The giant came at her side. She pointed at the two bloody holes in his blue shirt, but he shrugged and kindly smiled at her. He put himself in front of Enjolras and pulled on his gag. Enjolras groaned a horsed thank you, the bitter taste of the tie lingering on his tongue, and the thirst painful now. The giant winked at him, but Enjolras heard a snort, so he turned his head to look at the man who had been hiding in the tree.

 

He nearly startled when he saw him. The stranger was the ugliest person Enjolras had ever seen in his life. He had greasy black hair, a big flat nose and a couple of white scars on his left cheek. He also had a harelip, twisting his mouth in a perpetual sneer. His ears were too big, and his eyes were droopy. He had a two days beard that add nothing to soften the portrait. He was also fairly short and stocky. Even his clothes were not really appealing: his coat was tattered. When he noticed that Enjolras was staring at him, he frowned and joined his friend in front of him. He pushed the giant away with both his hands —these were short and hairy; a gorilla’s hands.

 

“You shouldn’t thank us so fast, Blondie. I did not spend most of the day in that tree for your nice little self. Rather, we’re the ones who are going to get the reward. Now, if you excuse me, I need to take a piss.”

 

He disappeared on the other side of the tree and Enjolras could hear him unzip his pants. Enjolras searched the eyes of the giant, who averted his and shrugged. The woman was not looking at him. An overwhelming feeling of disappointment filled Enjolras’s chest.

 

“So this is not a rescue,” Enjolras stated. “You are just as crooked as Montparnasse and his men. Not even capable of getting your own prey, you have to steal from others. They were cowards and liars, but on top of that, you are also thieves.”

 

“Oh, get off of your high horses,” he pissing pig said from behind the tree. “At least, we didn’t cause the death of like a hundred people.”

 

“These people died honourably,” Enjolras quickly replied, though a lump began to form in his throat.

 

“Yeah, while you, you are still alive!”

 

“I would have died by their side, given the choice!”

 

“Tell that to someone who cares.”

 

Enjolras turned his head, furious, trying to get a glimpse of the man.

 

“Not caring puts you on the side of the oppressors!” he yelped, “Therefore, I’m not the murderer. You are!”

 

There was a strained silence during which the guy slowly came back from behind the tree. He looked into Enjolras’s eyes and stabbed him in the chest with his forefinger.

 

“I. Never killed an innocent,” he spat. “You did worst. You corrupted their minds and catapulted them against a wall they had no chance of destroying. You made them believe they could do something they couldn’t. And now people have died. People are in exile. Families have been separated. If that’s honourable, I have no interest in honour.”

 

Enjolras wrinkled his nose.

 

“You rather they have died starving, in an unfair world? You would say that dying in their conditions was more appropriate?”

 

“They were not dying before you debarked with your speeches,” the man retorted. “Life was harsh, but they were living.”

 

“No, they were dead, before I and my friends started to do something about it.”

 

“You are so _full of it_ ,” the man hissed.

 

“What about you? Pretending not to be a murderer when you’re sending me to potence?”

 

“I’ll be doing the world a favour. And a favour to you, too! Since you want to die so much.”

 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Enjolras said, jutting out his chin, “but I can see greed in your eyes, despair in your traits, and ignorance everywhere else. You seek only to serve yourself.”

 

The man’s hand shot up and he grabbed Enjolras by the hair. He did not pull, nor did he really hurt him. He just stared at him for a long minute before the giant stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. Then, he just bursted into laugh. He tapped Enjolras on the cheek, his hand lingering, and he threw his arms in the air.

 

“You got me! I’m a bounty hunter, after all. We’re not exactly expert with charity! We are the wicked monster mommy and daddy told you about before tucking you in at night, so you would never stray away from home. We’re the proof that your utopia about a nice, cosy world is... well, an utopia.”

 

Enjolras rolled his eyes and slumped against the tree. He decided that the stranger was a whore for attention and that he should just ignore him. He turned his head towards the giant.

 

“I’m hungry,” he said. “I’m also thirsty. I have a headache and my limbs hurt.”

 

“What do you want us to do about it, Princess?” exclaimed the ugly man before his friend could say anything, but he was taking something out of inside his short coat. It was a flask. He opened it and drank from it. Then, he put it in front of Enjolras’s lips who let himself drink too. Fortunately, it was water, and not something else. “These ingrate jerks. Not even able to feed their hostage,” the man added.

 

“We’re going to untie you, but just so you know, we’re three and we can run really fast,” the giant said. At these words, he got out a small knife from his pocket and started to work on the rope. “I’m Bahorel,” he said conversationally, “Not that you have to care, but you can call me that. The rude as fuck dude is Grantaire. The lady, over here, it’s Floreal. And you, you are Aurel Enjolras, our privileged hostage.”

 

“Hi,” Floreal said. “There is food in the truck. Bahorel, we got to hurry before these men alert the guards.”

 

“Working on it, darling!”

 

He broke the rope and Enjolras almost fell to his knees. Grantaire caught him, but Bahorel immediately pulled Enjolras away from his grasp and took him bride style. Enjolras felt his ego bleeding, but he was too weak to protest. He let himself be carried into the truck.


	2. A Nightmare on Elm Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his journey back to Ashelnand, Enjolras discovers for the first time the horror of public hangings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Contains some violence and minor characters death.

_Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain_  
 _And all the children are insane_  
 _All the children are insane_  
 _Waiting for the summer rain, yeah_  
 _There's danger on the edge of town_  
 _Ride the King's highway, baby_  
 _Weird scenes inside the gold mine_  
 _Ride the highway west, baby_  
~The End -The Doors

 

Enjolras was installed on the backseat of the truck, where he was soon joined by Floreal. Bahorel and Grantaire bickered to know who was going to drive. Grantaire kept pointing at Bahorel’s chest. He eventually won, and he took the driver’s seat. The giant sat on the other side of Enjolras, groaning. He opened his mouth, probably to add a biting insult in order to have the last word, but Enjolras’s stomach made a gross gurgle and so he laughed instead. Floreal smiled and leaned forward to grab a bag on the passenger seat. She rummaged inside and took out an apple that she put in Enjolras’s hands. When he almost dropped it, she helped him lifting his hands to his mouth so he could take a bite. He smiled back at her briefly, though his gaze remained hard. He doubted that Floreal was a bad person, but she was still wearing the colours of the city’s guards, the enemy of the people.

“So!” Bahorel exclaimed, “You are a fan of freedom, man? Wanted to die for the cause?” All the giant got from the blonde was a suspicious glare. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. I find that very grand of you. Some of my old drinking buddies were at one of your secret meetings. They enrolled into your revolution, you know.”

His interest piqued, Enjolras turned his head towards Bahorel. The man’s eyes were oddly soft and amiable, so he decided to engage in conversation with him, not only to see if he could negotiate his fate, but also because of genuine compassion.

“What happened to your friends? Did they die?” he asked softly.

“Only one of them escaped. Actually, he was hiding in the bed of this pick up truck when I stopped by you for the first time.”

“My condolences. Is that when your other friend decided to climb into the tree?”

“What, Grantaire? Please. He’s not that stealthy. You’d have noticed his fat ass, or you’d have heard him.”

“Hey!” whined Grantaire at the front. “I’ll have you know that I can be very stealthy. I just choose not to because it’s so much work.”

“Then, what were you doing in a tree?” Enjolras asked. He took another bite from his apple.

“None of your business, Princess,” he scoffed, but his tone was embarrassed. Uninterested, Enjolras turned his attention back to Bahorel.

“I’m really sorry for your friends,” he assured. “What were their names? Maybe I had the chance to speak with them.”

“Seriously? You’re the one who caused their death and now you want to feign sympathy so we can cuddle you to—”

“Grantaire, shut the fuck up!” Bahorel barked. He even kicked in Grantaire’s seat. The ugly man complied, surprisingly. Bahorel looked over at Enjolras and smiled. “Bastien. Grégoire. Delorme. The one who survived is called Feuilly.”

“I don’t recall anyone that goes by those names,” Enjolras admitted sheepishly. Bahorel shrugged. He was playing absently with the bullet holes in his shirt, and he did not look angry or disappointed. There was a long, meaningful sigh coming from the driver seat, though.

“Why doesn’t this surprise me?” Grantaire mumbled, “The cause before everything, yes? Even before people’s lives. So many died. Namelessly. Worthlessly. Uselessly.”

“Their death didn’t mean nothing!” Enjolras exclaimed. Audaciously, he kicked the back of Grantaire’s seat like Bahorel had done, which made the giant squirm somehow. “How dare you pass judgment on me and these people when you did absolutely nothing?”

“Who said I did nothing?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Enjolras hissed, “Spending your day in a tree doesn’t strike me as doing something particularly relevant or useful. You know what, it is easy to criticize something sitting back on your rear and going with neutrality. You don’t win fights without a few sacrifices.”

“Yeah, well at least I don’t see living people as mere sacrifices for something that didn’t even work out in the end.”

“I value each of their lives!” Enjolras cried out. “And it was our first try! We might have lost this fight, but the war is far from over! People cannot be shut down forever, especially when they see that so many others are ready to back them up.”

Grantaire stopped the truck abruptly in the middle of the road. He turned on his seat to stare at Enjolras in the eyes. He had a bizarre, ugly rictus on his face, but somehow it did not reach his eyes. Something told Enjolras that he was only looking for a fight. There were people who drew their joy from the misery of others, and there were people, like Grantaire, who just needed, it seemed, to render people as miserable as _they_ were. That was the nature of the glint in Grantaire’s eyes: misery. Enjolras induced that the man was one of these cynics who couldn’t be shaken into believing anything anymore. Such people had reached rock bottom, and their cynicism was a diseased that they voluntarily tried to spread onto the world. Surely, Grantaire had his own baggage and had his share of suffering, but Enjolras couldn’t help but to despise the man. At least, Montparnasse and his goons had not try to morally destabilize him. Grantaire was toying with him.

“If you valued each of their lives, you wouldn’t have send them to their death. They were canon fodder. That is always what it is like in revolutions. The fortunate, privileged, white goldilocks of your kind talk and stay behind, and the poor average folks? They die!”

Enjolras jutted out his chin, glaring at Grantaire. “They would have died anyway. Thinking they deserved it. That’s what always happened when you _don’t_ revolt. You end up believing what the powerful tells you: that you are scum, and that you are nothing. Little by little, they chip your freedom and your self-respect. They turn you into slaves, bound physically and mentally to obey, to act like servants or robots. Soon, we’re not even humans. We’re just livestock. We, the revolutionaries, are thinking for the future of a people that is worth more than that. That deserve to be liberated. You are thinking with fear and selfishness, ready to abandon yourself to mediocrity so you won’t have to handle a little pain. Shame on you.”

There was a silence during which Enjolras thought that Grantaire was either going to throttle him or slap him, but Bahorel sort of defused the tension by screeching loudly. Enjolras startled and looked over only to realize that the giant had removed his shirt and plunged two fingers into one of his wounds. Blood spurted on his hands and the man was shaking, but a few seconds later, he was removing a round bullet from the bloody hole and sighing in relief. Enjolras gaped at him, but his two friends remained unperturbed by the sight. Floreal, who had been tranquil and silent until now, slapped her forehead and groaned. Grantaire shook his head and faced the wheel again. He started the truck.

“Bahorel, it’s not healthy to use your dirty fingers in an open wound like that!” Floreal said.

“Well, I don’t intend to see a doctor before we’re back in Mist Hill, and these fuckers itch, so I don’t have a choice, sweetheart.”

“How come you can resist bullet wounds like that?” Enjolras inquired. “How come your pain tolerance is so amazing?

“I told you earlier, no? People got to be careful about them damn Trolls. We’re tough, tenacious creatures.”

“You are a troll?” Enjolras asked, baffled. Grantaire let out a stiff laugh and even Floreal giggled. Bahorel, though, puffed his chest and looked proud.

“The trolliest of them all!” he said. He nudged Enjolras who smiled faintly. He was still shaken by his little exchange with Grantaire. People thought he was argumentative and opinionated, but really, he thought that debating with anyone he couldn’t convince was exhausting. He still did it, clinging to the thin chance that perhaps, he could win over his dissidents. It did not seem to be the case with Grantaire, but Bahorel and Floreal were looking at him with something that resembled admiration, or at least respect.

“I have another question,” Enjolras said cautiously. “If you have friends who partook in the protests, why are you arresting me? Not that I think you owe me the respect you had for your friends, of course, but I’d have thought that perhaps you would have some compassion for your friends’ cause. Instead, you hang out with someone from the city’s guard.”

“Oh, I am not a real guard,” Floreal hurriedly said, blushing. “My brother was. I made these clothes myself, you know. They make us do it to honour the dead. I have taken to wear it once in a while. Not because I approved of his vocation, but because sometimes, people mistake me from a guard, so Ican con them.”

“Making yourself pass as a guard could land you in jail!” Enjolras exclaimed.

“I never got caught. Actually, the guards like me. They think that I’m just being loyal to my brother.”

“I can’t believe that you fooled Montparnasse like this.”

“I have my ways,” Floreal said. She wanted her tone to be mysterious, but she showed Enjolras a badge that was in her pocket. It was assuredly the golden guard badge of her dead husband that she had somehow not gave back, as the protocol said she should have. Enjolras chuckled as she put it back into her pocket. “But to answer your first question... we were hoping to get the reward in exchange for you. We’re not very fortunate, back in Mist Hill. In fact, we’re very poor. We thought since the revolution was failing...” she trailed off.

“We thought it wouldn’t matter if you died,” Bahorel finished, “that you were eventually going to get caught, since they put on a wanted poster from day one.”

“In that case, you were really lucky to find me,” Enjolras said, a little disappointed. “It boggles my mind how you succeeded to find Montparnasse, how you knew where he’d take me.”

“I know a man who knows a man, who knows your friend Courfeyrac,” Grantaire said. “We tricked your friend into thinking we were reliable. We tricked Montparnasse’s friend into thinking he was tricking us. We put a tracking device in the car.”

“A tracking device... those are rare and—”

“I know a man who knows a man,” Grantaire repeated. “Now, that you know how we planned your capture, please kindly shut up. Your voice is getting on my nerves.”

Enjolras frowned, but obeyed. He had nothing more to say.

 

*******

 

The rest of the journey to Ashelnand was spent mostly in silence. Bahorel plunged his fingers in his second wound and managed to get out the other bullet without making too much noise. He wiped the blood from his hands and chest with his shirt. The wounds had stopped bleeding by the time he was done. Enjolras thought absently that his friend Combeferre, who studied medicine before joining the crusade, would have a blast questioning the bulletproof giant and watching him heal. The man even had the audacity to look bored with the situation, like it was something he underwent frequently, so much so that it had become a routine. Floreal did not seem that enchanted with his behaviour.

The young woman was stiff on the other side of Enjolras. She was playing with the rim of her coat, hands in her lap, avoiding to look at her friend. She was not a very talkative person. Enjolras wondered if she was the sister or the wife of one of the other two, or if they were all just friends. He himself did not have any sibling. He did not have any girlfriend either. In fact, somewhere in the fireplace of the ancient house where his parents lived, there was a burned black badge that was very telling of why he had remained single. They gave it to him because he admitted to a nosy teacher that he did not have any interest in girls. In Ashelnand, Enjolras could not love the ones he wanted to love. It was not a crime per se, but it definitely put you in the line of fire. Not that it mattered now. Enjolras had decided that his intimate life would be unimportant as long as every citizen of Ashelnand was free from bigotry and dictatorship. It was a spec of dust, basically. Now that he was slowly going to his death, he wondered what it’d have been like to kiss someone goodbye.

After a while, the walls of the city became faintly visible, blurry in the horizon and the night, but Grantaire turned right into a field and stopped the truck. Enjolras was perplexed, until he saw a manhole camouflaged behind a few bushes. It was barely noticeable. Enjolras thought that its presence was strange, because the waters of the sewers were connected to the dump before the two big lakes south of the city. Enjolras guessed that there must have been passages he was not aware of. He wondered out loud why they had to use them.

“So the guards at the door won’t be tempted to just keep you and send us away,” Grantaire answered. He got out of the truck and motioned them to do the same.

“Are you feeling better?” Bahorel asked Enjolras, “Or do you want me to carry you on my back?”

“I can walk,” Enjolras almost snapped. His limbs did not hurt as much as before and he was hydrated. He was still hungry, but the noise his stomach made were not going to keep him from protecting his ego. When Bahorel moved out of the say, he followed. Floreal remained in the truck. She changed place, sitting herself in the driver seat. Grantaire caught Enjolras’s arm. His grip was rather loose, like he wasn’t worried about Enjolras escaping. He had no qualms dragging the blonde towards the manhole. Bahorel seize its cover and, effortlessly, lifted it up. There was an old, rusty ladder. The hole was pitch black. Grantaire went down without any hesitation. Enjolras knew that it was expected that he would go after him, but for a moment, he thought about running the other way. He had never really liked tunnels and darkness. Being trapped in the boot of a car was one thing, venturing into ancien sewers was another. What if there were snakes? Spiders? What if the ceiling collapsed on him?

“Hey, I’m not saying that I couldn’t hold that thing all day, because I could, but I’d rather not,” Bahorel said. When Enjolras did not bulge, he sighed, “Don’t make me throw it at you, sweetheart. You said you’d walk; well walk.”

Enjolras gulped and, shakily, squatted and put his foot on the first bar. He slowly went down, looking at the starry sky drawing away, until he felt the ground under his feet. At that moment, Grantaire shouted at Bahorel that it was fine, and the giant put back the cover on the manhole, plunging the tunnel into complete darkness. Enjolras had a lump in his throat. Panic was crawling up his skin, giving him goosebumps and making him shiver helplessly. He couldn’t see anything. He startled when he felt Grantaire’s hand on his shoulder and, promptly, threw a blind punch into the dark. His fist connected with something hard and a muffled sound and a cry informed him that he hit Grantaire. He caught a bar of the ladder and tried to go back up, but two hands grabbed his waist. He thought Grantaire was going to throw him on the ground, like Claquesous did earlier during the day, but the hands remained there, unmoving. Tensed, Enjolras waited for his captor to do something.

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras scoffed, but he clang to the ladder a bit harder. Grantaire started massaging his hips. “I know the trail by heart,” he said.

“Don’t patronize me,” Enjolras hissed. “You can’t be that concerned about me being scared.”

“Don’t be petulant. I’m not mocking you,” Grantaire replied. Enjolras ignored him. This was a man who thought he was a murderer and the cause of everything that is wrong. A man who wanted money in exchange for seeing him at the potence. Surely, he was taking pleasure in Enjolras’s plight. But Grantaire’s hands went to Enjolras’s back and kept massaging him. “There’s not going to be any collapsing, Enjolras, I promise. You are not going to die here.”

“Then I’ll be hang instead,” Enjolras spat bitterly.

“With your gaze proudly surfing the crowd. With the knowledge that you helped feeding poor villagers. As a martyr, if you want, someone people will remember in the future. Not as a nobody in a cave, believe me.”

Enjolras put his feet back on the ground and turned. Grantaire caught his hand in his. His palm was clammy and Enjolras almost swatted at it, but he didn’t. Grantaire was actually being nice to him, and though he did not like the man, he hung on to that sudden kindness like it was a life jacket... or a light in the dark.

“Listen, the tunnel is all dry. It is a bit long, I’ll give you that, but there are little obstacles. We looked for them. We removed everything that was dangerous. We strengthened the walls and the ceiling. I know this place. I’ve known it since I was your age. You’ll just have to put your hands on my shoulders and we’ll go slowly, okay?”

“Alright...” Enjolras said.

“You are warned, though: if you try to run, I might just catch you, tie you up and throw you back down here on your own,” Grantaire said. He was back to being a jerk, but somehow, his words had no bite in it. Enjolras allowed himself a half-smiled, if only because he knew that the man couldn’t see it. He felt Grantaire turned away, so he blindly tried to find his shoulder. When he found them, he couldn’t help but digging his fingers into them, afraid of being left behind. Grantaire started walking.

There was no way to tell how much time it took to cross the tunnel. It was an eternity of Grantaire feeling the walls, stopping, turning and warning Enjolras about the low ceiling. Enjolras hung on to his guide like he had talons instead of hands. His heart was beating fast, he was breathing hard and he was silently thanking the man in front of him for not mocking him. To the contrary, it seemed that Grantaire was trying to distract the blonde by babbling endlessly about the story of these lost tunnels. He said that when the rumour of hidden gold came to the ears of the people of Ashelnand, decades ago, they made themselves treasure hunters and dug plenty of caves. They even camouflaged the ends of the tunnels, making it seem like they were manhole for sewers. They were bitterly disappointed when they found nothing, needless to say. Enjolras learned more history about the old gold miners of Ashelnand than he really cared for, but at least it distracted him.

“How come it isn’t common knowledge in the city that these passages exist?” he inquired.

“Because these passages were supposed to be demolished eons ago.”

“So how come _you_ know about them?”

“I know a guy—”

“Who knows a guy, yes. You know a lot of people, it appears.”

“I’m very social that way,” Grantaire said. There was a smirk in his voice. “But for real, I found the place by accident by cleaning up the cave of that old blind man Myriel. I told him I saw something like a well, and he told me it was a tunnel that led to outside the city. Something tells me he used it to let his foreigner friends into the city. Or to let them out. Anyway, he died since then, but I’m on good terms with Mme Houcheloup, the new owner. I tried to renovate these passages as well and as secretly as I could. They’ve been really useful.”

“Do you always talk so much?” Enjolras blurted out. He felt Grantaire tense a little under his grasp. “I mean, not that it bothers me.”

“You are one to talk,” Grantaire grumbled. “In the café where you and your merry band of idiots hung out, you couldn’t shut your mouth to save your life. I barely heard any other voice than yours at any day.”

Vexed, Enjolras grinded his teeth. “Those were carefully prepared speeches that my friends help making. I was speaking for them too!”

“That’s the problem, really.”

“What, why? Also, how do you know— you’ve been at the Musain. You’ve spied on us.”

“Spied?” Grantaire cried. “Spied! What in the Hell? You talk as though my presence wasn’t welcomed, but there were dozens of other people like me, and you talked to them! I had no interest, at that point in time, in spying on you and your little revolutionary group.”

“You did so you could trick my friend,” Enjolras remarked.

“That is different.”

“How so?”

“That. Is. Different. People weren’t dying for you yet.”

The reddening of Grantaire’s face could practically be heard, something in his embarrassed tone. Enjolras couldn’t believe his ears. Grantaire had come to listen to him at one of his secret meetings. He was there, an anonymous face in the crowd, taking in Enjolras’s words and thinking about them. He even came more than once. For some reason, the thought of Grantaire being there, staring at him with his tern droopy eyes and his eternal rictus irritated Enjolras. The thought of Grantaire going back home to his friends, mimicking Enjolras and mocking him during supper, was even more displeasing. The thought of having _disappointed_ Grantaire was disturbing.

Enjolras removed his hands from Grantaire’s shoulder and pushed him in the back. It was a spontaneous gesture of anger. He had not thought things through. Grantaire yelped and fell forward. There was a thump. When he didn’t hear Grantaire, Enjolras panicked. He couldn’t see anything, Grantaire had shut up which meant perhaps he was unconscious. What if his head was bleeding? What if he had a concussion? What if he did not wake up? Enjolras did not know his way through the tunnels. He felt terror seizing him at the throat and breathing became difficult. Still, he carefully stoop over Grantaire’s body and started walking shakily. Suddenly, he felt a hand around his ankle. He squeaked, kicked at it and sprung forward, hands before him. He heard his name being screamed, but he couldn’t process it. He felt trapped, like the walls were closing on him, and he didn’t to breath, so he walked fast, practically slamming his hands against the walls so he wouldn’t plow into them. He heard steps behind him. He turned and threw a punch, but he did not hit anything. A second later, something struck him in the face. He backed off under the blow, but someone grabbed him by the pans of his coat. A long whine came out of Enjolras and he felt instantly humiliated.

“Shh!” Grantaire hissed, “You are alright. I’m here. Don’t panic. Breath.”

“I’d rather you weren’t!” Enjolras scolded, enraged at himself. He still grasped Grantaire’s hands and the man sighed.

Enjolras let himself be dragged the rest of the way. When, at last, Grantaire notified him that there was a ladder, and that it was over, Enjolras felt as though he was some ancient figure being spat out of the Hades. He heard Grantaire climbed metal bars, heard him lift something, and then there was light. It hurt Enjolras’s eyes, but he could have cried so much he missed the light. He pounced on the ladder and climbed as fast as he could. He almost passed out on the cold ground on which he let himself lie down, exhausted and out of breath. After having put back the stone plaque on the hole, Grantaire sat next to him and put his hand on his shoulder. Enjolras immediately brushed it off.

“I don’t need your sympathy,” he said harshly. Grantaire shrugged.

“Well then, get up and stop whining.”

Getting back to his feet without vomiting was an exploit. His vision went blurry for a moment and he felt dizzy as the fear and the panic wore off. He was still able to take in his surroundings: he was in a small cave where a lot of barrels were stocked. Wooden and cardboard boxes were piled up in every corners, and under a crooked stairway, there was a huge cooler. There were three light bulbs hanging from the ceilings. If he listened carefully, Enjolras could hear voices up the stairs. The place was moderately clean, and the smell of alcohol and food was strong. Enjolras’s stomach gurgled painfully. Grantaire opened a box and got out a few cans.

“Care to have a last supper, monsieur the martyr?” he said.

“I’m not a thief,” Enjolras retorted.

“Suit yourself,” Grantaire answered. He put back the cans, but he walked to another cardboard crate, opened it, and seized a bottle. It looked like wine, a cheap sort, one that Enjolras’s parents would have banned from the big parties and masquerades they organized each year. Grantaire effortlessly popped the cork and drank a few gulps of the liquid. Enjolras wrinkled his nose. He had never been fond of alcohol. It lowered inhibition, rendered men stupid, and trapped others into the Hell of illusions and addiction. He had never seen the point of getting wasted to the point of not being able to talk or to walk. He had seen his friend Courfeyrac indulged a few times, had witnessed his friend fainting and pissing herself, and that had been enough for him. That was without counting the number of times his parents’ guests went from polite humans to reckless, shameless beasts.

“If you drink too much, the wine will get to your head, and you might lose me in the crowd,” Enjolras remarked. His tone might have been a little pretentious, because Grantaire frowned.

“My tolerance to alcohol is really high,” he said.

“Oh, does that mean that you have the habit to drink?”

“So?”

“So, it is kind of humiliating to have been caught by a drunkard,” Enjolras said nonchalantly. This was mere provocation, though the words were genuine. Grantaire simply rolled his eyes. He dropped the bottle on the floor, letting it shattered in a few pieces. He looked completely unaffected by the splash of the red wine on his legs.

“I was trying to give you some more time, but fine, if you prefer, we’ll go to your potence right now,” Grantaire snapped. Apparently, Enjolras had struck a sensitive chord. He smirked at Grantaire.

“Like I said, I don’t need your sympathy. Besides, making it last is not even compassionate, it is just cruel. Stop trying to be kind. That’s what the powerful do, you know? Showing scraps of mercy so they can pretend they are not completely despicable. Perhaps it lighten the weight on their shoulders. Perhaps it makes it easier to live with what they are. But this is not a privilege they deserve. If you are going to lead me to my death, then don’t pretend to be worried about me. Don’t pretend to be my friend. Just get it over with. That would be decent, instead of giving me the false hope that you’re ultimately going to let me go.”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras, his gaze thoughtful.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He went to Enjolras and seized his arm. His grip was tight. “Then, let’s go.”

 

*******

 

It turned out that they were in the cave of a modest inn. When they climbed the stairs and erupted in a small kitchen, the three people who were talking there shut up and immediately glared at Grantaire. There were two men and a woman. The men were young, short and bearded. They looked a bit nervous: one was wrinkling his hands and the other was tapping this thigh incessantly. The woman —whom Enjolras assumed to be Mme Houcheloup— was a round-faced middle-aged personage with a protuberant nose and a stained apron. She crossed her arms and shook her head at Grantaire, who saluted the three people gayly.

“You can’t keep bringing your male lovers here, R!” Houcheloup hissed. “If you get caught, I’ll be obligated to file a complaint against you, or else it would be suspicious!”

“You always complain about me anyway, my dear Ma’am!” Grantaire exclaimed, smiling kindly upon the woman. “Why, hello Bernard. Pascal.”

The men nodded at Grantaire. One of them flushed and averted his eyes. Meanwhile, Enjolras was looking at Grantaire with a new perspective. Grantaire had male lovers. He was not heterosexual. He probably had a black badge somewhere, or he succeeded in never admitting to this trait of his identity. Whether he liked it or not, Grantaire and Enjolras now had something in common. Enjolras did not know what to feel about that.

“Don’t worry,” Grantaire assured the woman, “I was on my way. I won’t be bothering you any longer.” He started to drag Enjolras out of the kitchen.

“Wait!” Houcheloup cried out. She was looking intensely at Enjolras. He squirmed a little under her heavy gaze, but looked right into her eyes. She had recognized him. He could tell. He did not know whether it’ll have an impact on what would inevitably follow.

“Grantaire,” Houcheloup pursued, “That man is trembling. What kind of inconsiderate lover are you? Letting him go out in that miserable coat.”

Enjolras’s coat was actually warm enough. He was trembling because of his previous misfortune and because of his hunger. Still, Houcheloup sent one of the guys to get better clothes from her room.

“My son was only slightly bigger than you,” Houcheloup informed him. “I’m pretty sure you could use his coat, and his hat too.”

“Was?” Enjolras said.

“He died a few days ago. Shot by the guards. Ally of the anarchists, they said. Traitor to the people, they said. But my son was no traitor,” Houcheloup said, puffing her chest. Enjolras felt a pang of guilt in his.

“My condolences, madame,” he let out, trying to sound respectful. A bitter smile stretched her lips.

“Thank you.”

Surprisingly, Grantaire didn’t say anything. He did not protest when Pascal came back and hurriedly put a large grey coat on Enjolras’s shoulder, as well as a blue woolen hat on his head. Enjolras buttoned up the coat, and Grantaire simply thanked his friends before asking the blonde to follow him. Enjolras docilely obeyed. He thought there was no point in trying to resist, because although Houcheloup’s gaze were sympathetic, her expression was a bit scornful nonetheless. In her eyes, Enjolras caused her son’s death. The fact that she was making him wear the coat could have been a guilt-inducing gesture or a kind one, but who was to know? Given the choice, the three people would side with Grantaire.

They easily went out of the inn without being noticed. Most of the clientele seemed to be withdrawn and uninterested. It was constituted of old men, middle-aged women in shawls and scruffy people nursing their drink absently. Enjolras and Grantaire got a couple of curious looks, but nothing else. On the street, it was something else. The moment Grantaire set a foot outside, he was nearly ran over by a group of teenagers laughing and screaming wildly that it was the time. It was nearly impossible to go in the opposite direction because the street was narrow and dark, and everyone was hurrying on the right. Soon, they were pushed in the flow of the crowd. If Grantaire’s grip on Enjolras’s arm wasn’t so strong, they could easily get separated. In fact, Enjolras thought maybe he could push Grantaire away and disappear among the people, into the night. He did not have the time to try.

A long, pain-filled scream resounded. It was followed by a sort of reluctant ovation. It seemed to be coming from the Grande Place, the agora. Enjolras’s stomach churned, and it had nothing to do with hunger.

It was a public hanging.

In all of his eighteen years of life, Enjolras had never seen one of these. He knew that they happened, and quite frequently at that, but he lived far away from the Grande Place and he had managed to avoid them. When he got word that some prisoner was condemned to be hung or shot in public, he usually hid in his room and put on some music. He was intensely ashamed of this. Most people couldn’t afford different pieces of technology, or it was illegal for them to have it. Somehow, CD players and radios were part of that ban. The king was either paranoid or simply cruel when it came to sharing the little pleasures of life and whatever could facilitate the lives of the citizens. Yet, Enjolras had headphones and a CD player, and he used it to drown the sound of the cheering and the crying that could be heard from his parents’ house.

Once, when he was a kid, Enjolras’s mother had tried to make him go to a hanging to “strengthen his character”. He showed her that he did not need to go through this to have a character: he broke a set of porcelain dishes and screeched at her until his throat was sore. She fortunately gave up, afraid that the neighbours would talk if they heard her son belting out insults and hitting the walls like this. Enjolras’s mother was not a bad person per se, but she lived in fear of the appearances. She had trouble standing up for herself and she was a silent woman. The look she sent her son when he announced her at fifteen that he was going to prepare a revolution one day was one of pure pride. She did not help, and only supported him in silence, but she protected his secret. As for Enjolras’s father, he seemed embarrassed of having such a son, but indulged in what he considered to be “caprices”. The truth was, Enjolras had been spoiled, as much as a child of Ashelnand could be spoiled being the kind of person Enjolras was.

Enjolras tried to resist Grantaire’s grip, to go into the other direction, but he could do nothing against the unstoppable force of the crowd rushing in a same movement. Soon, he was standing on the outskirts of the Grande Place. He could not see the wooden potence, let alone the condemned people, but he could hear the executioner talk in his megaphone with his grave, monotonous voice. He could here the supplication of a man, a woman crying, and the booing of the people —most certainly loyalists— who were standing at the front. It was hard to make out the words, but Enjolras knew that the executioner was listing the wrong doings of the condemned. When he heard the word “traitors”, he knew that they were killing off some of the people who partook in the revolution. It suddenly hit him that it could be anyone he knew.

Filled with a renewed vigour, Enjolras sprung forward and pushed people around, making his way towards the potence. Grantaire was still clinging to his arm, but he had no choice but to follow. He couldn’t just yell Enjolras’s name, or anything really, under the threat of attracting attention on them. His grip tightened, though, and he kept pulling at the blonde. When Enjolras finally stopped, he hissed right in his ear: “What do you think you are doing?!”

Shaking his head, Enjolras tiptoed and tried to get a better look. It was impossible to get closer, and people were throwing him nasty glares already. He didn’t care. He kept trying to see better. He could only think about the fact that it might be Combeferre or Courfeyrac on this potence. From where he was, between the heads and arms of the people in front of him, he could see four people on the potence. They all had a manly stature. One of them looked tall enough to be Combeferre. Two others were round, much like Courfeyrac. However, Enjolras could not see their head because they were covered with a brown bag. He could not see the colour of their skin either. It could have been anyone, and yet Enjolras was caught in the certitude that it was his friends, there, about to die before his eyes.

Perhaps, if he was quick enough, he could give himself in and demand their lives to be spared. He could say make up something about obliging them, fogging their naive minds with his speeches and his woman face. He didn’t want to sabotage their honour, but imagining them dead made his insides twist and his heart hurt as though it had been stabbed. When Grantaire pulled on his arm so he would follow, Enjolras let out something that resembled a sob. Grantaire stopped. A glint of understanding passed in his eyes.

“I would like for you to follow me, brother,” he said loudly. “You are much too sensitive, what a shame to waste your empathy on these traitors.”

A few people around them groaned and gave them some space so Grantaire could forcefully pull Enjolras out of the crowd. Enjolras tried to escape, but Grantaire was stronger. He pushed him, pushed him again until they were far from the buzzing place. The last thing Enjolras remembered hearing was the loud noise of wood given out, and the acclamation of the loyalists. He also heard a rope snapping, but that must have been in his imagination.

 

*******

 

He did not lose consciousness, but he lost track of time. When he was back to himself, he realized that his cheeks were wet and that he was in a dark back alley, only illuminated by a far away lamppost and the moon. He was sitting on the ground and Grantaire was standing in front of him, a worried expression darkening his traits. He was chewing his bottom lip nervously. When he saw that Enjolras had calmed down and was lucid and coherent again, he made a move with his leg, as though he was going to kick him.

“You fucking— What were you thinking do you?” Grantaire hissed furiously, “Climb on the potence and hug them before everybody, only to get shot on the spot?”

“You could have saved them!” Enjolras hissed right back. “By being quicker, by yelling that you had me, I don’t know! I could have been traded for their lives!”

“What? Are you crazy? Enjolras, they would have _shot us on the spot_.”

“What do you mean?”

“You sheltered idiot! Don’t you know? It is forbidden to protest or try to defend someone at a lynching. People, crying mothers and fathers and siblings, have been shot for that. It’s even worse when the crime is treason. They don’t take chance, they immediately assume that you want to help the accused, they put you on the black list and they shoot. They don’t— they never take the time to listen. Nothing you could have done would have saved them.”

Enjolras felt more tears streaming down his cheeks. He turned his head on the side and threw up. Bits of vomit got caught in his bangs and splashed on his borrowed coat. Since he didn’t eat much that day, his stomach hurt and the taste of acid infiltrated his mouth. Enjolras looked up at Grantaire afterwards. The man was looking at him harshly.

“Never saw a hanging before?” he asked.

“No...”

“Huh. Be glad that you were not here when the streets went red this morning. I sure am. Were these men anyone you knew?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras admitted. “They might have been... I don’t know what has become of my friends. If they’re already dead, or if it was the-them back there...”

Grantaire squatted before him.

“You mean Combeferre and Courfeyrac? That’s their names, right?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t them, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, smiling tentatively. He repeated it when the blonde only blinked, unable to process the sentence.

“What? How do you know?”

“It wasn’t them. Your friends are too important to be hung the very night of the end of the protests. If they were captured, they’ll be undergoing a trial and then, they’d be shot against a wall as they played the anthem in the background. That’s how it goes for traitors. You know that. Remember.”

Slowly, it came back to Enjolras’s head, all the readings he did. The charters, the book of laws, the numerous books about Ashelnand the city. He knew that information. Lynching was considered the death of the poor and contemptible, but when the crime was political and was committed by members of the high middle-class, there was a special fire squad. A ceremony of a sort to point out who was deserving the waste of a few bullets. It was not necessarily more honourable or dishonourable. It was just murder dressed differently. Enjolras read that sometimes, they aimed non-vital parts of the body and let one die out of blood loss or infection.

“What if they decided that I was the only one deserving to get shot? What if they did not recognize Courf and Ferre as my equals?” Enjolras still inquired.

“What does it matter anyway?” Grantaire said. “If your friends have been caught, they are dead men anyway for being your friends.”

He seemed to regret his words the moment they passed his lips, but Enjolras balled his hands into fists and got up. He wiped his tear-stained face and threw a disdainful look at Grantaire. If he was to be honest, he was sick of appearing weak before the man. First, he had been thrown out of a car, kicked and tied up, then he had panicked in the tunnel and now, there he was, crying like a small child for what he couldn’t change. He must not have fitted the part of the leader of the revolution in Grantaire’s mind. He must have looked like a dishevelled, spoiled gamin who had no idea what he was in for. Enjolras jutted out his chin.

“Grantaire. Take me to the king, now,” he demanded.

“No,” Grantaire said. The simple word threw Enjolras off. He frowned and examined Grantaire’s expression, trying to see if he was mocking him or trying to destabilize him. Actually, the man was also frowning, a perplexed smile floating on his lips.

“What do you mean, no? What is your plan, then?”

“I... We were supposed to join Bahorel and Floreal in front of the palace of the king.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Aren’t you in a hurry to get your reward?”

“Why aren’t you trying to escape from this half-assed attempt at getting it, anyway?” Grantaire questioned back. His tone was a little bitter.

“I don’t have anything to defend myself with. What, do you want me to escape?” Enjolras asked, puzzled.

“I thought you would be more of a fighter, is all. Besides, you can throw a mean punch. My jaw is still throbbing, you know?”

“Liar.”

“But seriously, why—”

“What now? Are you disappointed?” Enjolras said. He was feeling insulted. “You don’t believe in my convictions, my cause or myself. You don’t get to be disappointed!”

“Well, I am! I didn’t think you would give up that easily!”

“Give up? Who says I’m giving up? It is like you said before: my death will remind the people of what their government is capable of! I do not want to live in exile. The revolution has failed: the least I can do is to die and become a symbol of it!”

“Idiot! A symbol will serve no purpose! Your death will be meaningless! You can’t help anybody if you are six feet underground!”

“Then what would you have me do? Try to start again, only to blame me for new deaths when they happen?”

“I want you to live!” Grantaire cried out, throwing his arms in the air.

The man looked distraught by his own declaration. Enjolras shut up, stunned. They observed each other for a few seconds. Grantaire’s gaze was shy, and Enjolras’s was inquisitive and irritated. It was so intensely exasperated that Grantaire dropped his gaze to the ground and kicked at it.

“But you don’t. You want to sell me,” Enjolras muttered.

“I changed my mind. I’m allowed to do that, no?” Grantaire replied, a realization dawning on his reddening face. “Fuck that shit. I don’t want to be a murderer either.”

“What about your friends? Their village?”

“Fuck. That. Shit. There are other ways to get money.”

Enjolras did not have anything to answer to that. When Grantaire tried to catch his arm, he dodged and slapped him hard in the face. Grantaire stepped back and laughed, incredulous.

“I can walk back to the inn without you dragging me around like a dog on a leash,” Enjolras said.

“So after all, you do want to live?” Grantaire asked.

“I want to strangle you for dragging me here, that’s what I want to do.”

“You have a death wish, so what suddenly changed your mind?”

“What suddenly changed yours?”

Grantaire threw him an enigmatic look. “I have my reasons,” he said, half-smiling.

“Be serious.”

“Perhaps I’ve known you for longer than you think. Perhaps I got attached to you. Perhaps I’m intrigued by what you could do, given another chance. Perhaps I was never really keen on the idea of letting you die. What about you?”

“I want to find my friends,” Enjolras said truthfully. “Know if they were captured, if they’re dead or if they’re missing. Wherever my friends are, I want to be.”

Grantaire nodded.

“I might know a guy who knows a guy...”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Hyela on Tumblr too: come and say hi!


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